


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

by sunflowerseed



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10526442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseed/pseuds/sunflowerseed
Summary: ’ You never were cut out for the military anyway.’ Arthur says, cracking ice between his teeth.Eames swipes a finger through the head of foam floating like scum at the top of his glass and Arthur’s eyes follow it lazily to his mouth. ‘ Oh, but I looked so swell in my berets.’





	

There’s a certain ambiguity to the way he carries himself. It’s a bit clichéd, considering his profession of choice, but still true nonetheless. It started long before the dreamscape, when he was a young boy; blond haired and blue eyed. Often described as “shy” by his mother, a “good boy” by his father, “loud” and “disobedient” by his nannies. Never a synonymous description; always shifting, always changing.

As a teenager he is very rarely described as shy, even more rarely described as a good boy. He plays his hand at rebellion; steals, gets drunk, gets high, has girls overnight, has boys overnight, stays out without notice, throws parties (once, smashes an heirloom decanter for a laugh). His mother never has words with him, too busy with dinner parties and her disdain of the nouveau riche. His father, never around long enough to witness the debauchery. His brothers, living on their own and indifferent.

He attends the Royal College of Art for three semesters and his father’s silent dissatisfaction isn’t reaction enough so he drops out. He spends 2 months living in the Seychelles; lies out on the beach, reads, gambles with his inheritance, watches the Infantry Unit of the People’s Defence Force run at 5 am every morning from his veranda.

‘ There’s no place in the military for people like us.’ His father says.

He’s stopped looking for a reaction from his mother. 

And so he enlists.

He finds solace in the routine, in the camaraderie.

Then there’s Arthur; thoughtful, smart as a whip, disputatious.

He finds solace in sitting quietly, reading between the lines, squabbling incessantly.

Eames won’t admit he fixates on him a little bit.

Arthur leaves the military and Eames finishes his tour of duty; doesn’t reenlist, wanders aimlessly. It’s years before their paths cross again. Eames is recruited as muscle by a friend to a job in Johannesburg.

‘ The one ‘pposed to be in charge of the whole thing’s named Dom Cobb’ Willy says thumbing the ash off the tip of his cigarette. ‘ and then there’s ‘is partner, Arthur.’ 

Arthur, a relatively common name, isn’t it?

Eames raises his brows in question.

‘ Mononymous, apparently.’ Willy says wryly. 

Of course it’s Arthur. A little less boyish, dressed as severely as he used to, in a whole other direction. The first moment he sees Eames he looks bewildered, then bemused.

‘ Arthur.’ Eames says, toothy grin and all.

The one called Cobb leans back in his chair and watches with a vaguely interested expression.

Arthur says: ’ This is your David Jones?’

Willy looks confused and Eames bites down on his laughter.

‘ You two know each other?’ Cob inquires looking casually between them.

Eames shrugs. ‘ Oh, just barely.’

From what Eames uncovers; Arthur’s known Dom for quite some time. He’d never once mentioned him: not explicitly, not in passing, not at all. Dom fancies himself a mystery, but Eames thinks he’s not as puzzling as he might hope. He worries his empty ring finger incessantly (divorced, widowed maybe), leaves at the same time everyday to make a phone call (to a loved one most likely, children probably). He catches Arthur watching Dom with apprehensive eyes once or twice and as much as Eames is a troublemaker he knows where to keep his nose. 

16 weeks later they’re on another job. Cobb still looks between Arthur and Eames with a peculiar affectation. Arthur acts as if he doesn’t notice but Eames recognizes the way his body reacts when Cobb is looking; loose and easy becomes taut and composed. Eames wonders sometimes if they’ve slept together. Cobb seems blatantly heterosexual and there’s a strangely paternal air to their relationship but still, he can’t help his mind from wandering.

‘ You and Cob,’ Eames says one evening in the warehouse. Cobb is under for fifteen.

The top buttons of Arthur’s shirt hang open gratuitously and his browned forearms carry the burden of his weight against his desk.

Arthur glances away from Cobb’s sleeping face to give Eames a placid look. ‘ What.’

‘ Where did you find the tosser?’

His fingers tap dance against his thigh, he returns his gaze to Cobb’s face. ‘ Dom’s wife was one of my professors at Rhode Island.’

‘ Before or…?’

‘ Before my tour. I graduated the year before.’

‘ An academic enlisting in the military. ’ Eames says as if he isn’t holding half of the same hand.

Arthur shrugs, opens the notebook in front of him. ‘ I was chock full of false nationalism at the time if you could believe.’

It’s strangely endearing. A young and naive Arthur, different from the young man Eames met 3 years into his service. ‘ I couldn’t.’

He smiles limply, writes something in his margin. ‘ Yeah, well.’

‘ I enlisted to piss off my father. Mostly.’

Arthur glances up at him and the lamp on his desk is throwing strange shapes across his mouth. His eyelashes come down against his cheeks like fanning palm fronds. ‘ Did it work?’

Eames leans forward. ‘ For a time.’

‘ Surely you could’ve pissed him off without signing away six years of your life.’

Eames laughs, leans back in his chair. ‘ You don’t know my parents, pet. I liked the gig once I was there anyway.’

‘ Why leave then?’

Eames considers it. ‘ I spent twenty years trying to get their attention. It grows old.’

Arthur pulls out a pristine box of Marlboro’s from his desk drawer. ‘ But why leave? If you’re such an army man through and through.’

Eames smiles, rubs at his cheek. ‘ What? You want to believe I followed you out? Since when do you smoke?’

Arthur grins around the burnt sienna end of his cigarette. ‘ You said it.’

Cobb startles awake with a grimace.

They grab drinks at a timeworn pub by the ocean front. Two Guinness, two fingers of rye (three times over). Arthur’s tired smile, lit by the refracted light bouncing off the water and the tea-lights on the table flickering pale yellow like a buttercup under his chin. 

’ You never were cut out for the military anyway.’ Arthur says, cracking ice between his teeth.

Eames swipes a finger through the head of foam floating like scum at the top of his glass and Arthur’s eyes follow it lazily to his mouth. ‘ Oh, but I looked so swell in my berets.’

Eames allows himself to become familiar (again) with the smiling warmth of Arthur after he’s been drinking. They dawdle down the side of the road, too small for any pavement, and Arthur pauses outside the doors of his hotel, glances at Eames.

The room smells desperately of cigarettes, the ironing table has been set up as an installation in the middle of the room, there’s loose leaf scattered across the dining table, and coffee grounds in a mound on the media stand. Arthur goes soft and pliant off rye. He pushes and pulls Eames into his bed, mouths insistently at the receding bruise on his jaw he acquired in Mullingar just a week ago. 

‘ Here.’ Arthur mumbles attempting to coax him out of his trousers. ‘ Bum.’

Eames lifts his hips off the bed and Arthur shimmies him out of the scratchy wool.

They’re both in a mild to moderate state of delirium and Eames needs for Arthur to fill the ache inside of him as quickly and efficiently as possible. His head lolls back against the mattress and he bumps his knee accidentally against the side of Arthur’s head in surprise at the persistent press of a cold finger. 

‘ Ow.’ Arthur says softly looking reproachfully at Eames.

Eames presses his chin to his chest with a dopey smile pinching his cheeks. Arthur’s hair is flopped down against his forehead and his lips are a crushed carmine.

‘ Sorry.’ Eames mumbles. ‘ Go on.’

Arthur’s hands are steady and persistent. He’s too tired to go the full mile but they’re buzzed and especially sensitive so he manages enough friction to get them both off. He mutters something swallowed and contented before his breathing expands. Eames glazes tired eyes across the bones of his neck and collarbone. It’s not how he expected; not ravenous, not desperate, more simple, more effortless, imminent.


End file.
